


Look At Us

by brokenparable



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Danish Actor RPF, Hannibal (TV) RPF, Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Madancy, Mirror Sex, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Porn with Feelings, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 09:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13121019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenparable/pseuds/brokenparable
Summary: Mads and Hugh have agreed to stop having sex, but Hugh finds his self-control eroding during a Christmas dinner with the cast and crew.





	Look At Us

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place at a festive party set during the filming of _Hannibal_ , but I should be honest and admit that I was really just looking for a flimsy excuse to write RPF that vaguely fits with the theme of Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive's #WinterMurderland. Of course, the usual caveats apply—this has nothing to do with what I believe about reality and everything to do with how fun it is to imagine these two actors boning (and yes, I still feel a bit dreadful regardless).

“That’s hilarious!” Hugh says, forcibly dragging his eyes away from Mads for what feels like the hundredth time in the last few hours. They’re three courses into a Christmas dinner hosted at a generous crew member’s beautiful house, and Hugh has just missed the punchline to Scott’s convoluted story.

It’s almost too warm in the room, with the temperature turned up to insulate everyone from the numbing chill of winter. Sitting directly opposite Hugh, Mads looks beautiful and relaxed in a dark green sweater, his hair hanging loosely over his forehead. Hugh is painfully attracted to him in the glow created by the flickering candlelight, is captivated by his guileless confidence and easy elegance. 

Hugh feels maudlin and turned on at the same time—precisely the sort of dangerously potent combination that pushed the two of them to blur boundaries in the first place. He watches Mads laugh with Laurence, watches the way his lips move and the curl of his long fingers around his beer bottle. Mads catches him staring and quirks an eyebrow. Hugh flushes with embarrassment at the obvious crudeness of his train of thought. It has been weeks since they touched, and that deprivation has created a creeping itch under his skin. He swore he wouldn’t do anything about that itch—not again—but in this festive and sentimental atmosphere, there’s an almost irresistible pull to renege on their agreement. What sounded wise and prudent in November seems ridiculous and agonizing now.

Their knuckles brush as Mads passes a basket of bread and Hugh’s hand tingles, electrified. Mads meets his eyes again, and there’s a slow, long pulse of simmering heat that vibrates down Hugh’s spine and spreads through his limbs. A slim leg begins to press on the side of his calf under the table, and even that light contact makes him squirm. Mads gives him a half-smile before looking away.

Hugh wants to give in. He knows Mads does too, their shared wavelength so often an almost tangible thread that shimmers between them. Suddenly Hugh is standing, his body eagerly putting a plan into effect before his mind has a chance to object.

“Excuse me, I have to make a quick phone call,” he apologizes, theatrically waving his phone in support of the lie. It's possibly the worst acting of his life, but everyone is happy, excited and well on their way to drunkenness—no one is particularly likely to notice his amateurish subterfuge.

The chatter and laughter fade behind him as he climbs two flights of stairs to the top floor of the house. He leans on the wall outside a small spare bedroom, texting Mads one word: _Upstairs_. He feels nervous and a little nauseated. It is silly to assume Mads will follow him without question. Worse than that, maybe it is arrogant. Sure, they’ve done this often enough—in back alleys and bathrooms, in storage closets and on couches—but that was before. It is presumptuous to think that they can just slip back into that routine.

His anxious ruminating is interrupted by the sound of Mads pointedly clearing his throat. Always capable of unsettling stealth, Mads ushers him into the bedroom, closing the door behind them. There’s a split second where they just stand and look at each other. Hugh is struck by the absurd urge to stick his hands in his pockets, as though feigning nonchalance is possible when you’ve implicitly invited your colleague to hook up in an acquaintance’s guest bedroom.

“Hello,” Mads says with a smirk, closing the gap between them.

There’s no time to think for Hugh to think, no time to back out of what he has started—there’s only soft lips meeting his and a surge of pure, euphoric relief. They cling to each other, fingers twisting in hair and hips pressing together. Mads tastes like the cinnamon and baked apple of his dessert. They kiss with open mouths and bone-deep desperation, two people who have been silently starving for weeks. It’s destructive and idiotic, greedy and rash, but it’s so good that Hugh’s knees are trembling. He has wanted this so badly, and it’s better than he remembered, better than he fantasized it would be.

Mads draws back, expression wavering between a smile and a frown. “Changed your mind so soon?” he asks, voice husky. “I thought we weren’t doing this anymore.”

“I missed you,” Hugh replies with a little shrug. It sounds flimsy and puerile to him as he says it—more of an excuse than a justification.

Mads hums thoughtfully. “I’m flattered. And what did you miss?” he asks, rubbing a thumb over Hugh’s bottom lip. He briefly digs his nail in, and Hugh throbs in his pants.

“Your hands,” he says, the tip of his tongue flicking at the pad of Mads’s thumb. There’s a mix of salt and sugar on the calloused skin. “Your body. If it hadn’t been for all those people in the room, I think I would have crawled onto your lap.”

“Were you hard under the table when you were staring at me?”

“I’m hard right now—feel,” Hugh says, taking Mads’s hand and guiding it between his legs. “I can’t control myself around you, it's ridiculous. All I want to do is rip your clothes off and fuck you.”

“I dare you,” Mads shoots him a wicked grin, pupils wide in the dim room. Christmas lights from the trees in the yard cast multi-colored shadows across the planes of his face.

“We don’t have enough time,” Hugh says, a familiar sinking heaviness in his gut.

The truth is that they never have enough time, partly by circumstance and partly by design. There’s a bed here, but he knows they won’t use it, and not just for fear of being caught. He chooses the contexts of their encounters purposefully; it’s easier to keep them rough and dirty, thrilling and base. Tenderness and affection are boxed off in another place, things they reserve for outside these illicit interactions.

Mads understands. He always does, typically letting the unspoken remain that way. “Then we’ll do what we can,” he says and kisses Hugh again, an aggressive and demanding collision of mouths made to help obliterate any thoughts beyond _here_ , _more_ and _now_. Hugh leans into the kiss, reaching out behind Mads’s head to support himself and encountering a cold metal surface instead of the expected wall. Once the idea occurs to him, it's too tantalizing to resist. 

“Turn around,” he says softly, guiding Mads by the shoulders until he’s standing just in front of Hugh and a little to the left, both of them facing the full-length mirror on the front of the closet. “Look at us.”

Hugh drinks in the obvious physical fit, the natural and powerful flow of sexual energy, the way Mads looks gorgeously disheveled and visibly aroused. He slides a hand down Mads’s torso and slowly rubs at the outline of his erection through his jeans, watching his lips part in pleasure.

Their eyes lock in the mirror, and Hugh shifts his hips so that their bodies are pressed tightly against each other, hard cock to denim-clad ass. He sighs, overwhelmed by the temptation to pull their trousers down and slip two spit-slicked fingers inside Mads, aching to work him open and sink inside him.

“Unzip for me,” he murmurs to Mads instead, voice deliberately commanding and seductive in his ear.

Mads huffs out a shaky laugh, fumbling with his fly. “You will be the death of me,” he says. “But I’ve always known this, I think.”

Hugh smiles and reaches inside, palming the hard ridge of him through his underwear. It’s delicious to tease him like this, but Hugh relents when Mads grunts in frustration, pushing jeans and boxers down to let his cock spring free. Hugh spits into his hand and finally takes Mads in his fist, relishing the rightness of the weight in his hand. He sees Mads swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the mirror. He starts to make soft noises at the back of his throat as Hugh strokes him gently, increasing the speed by increments.

Hugh loves the picture they make, right hand working Mads to orgasm and left arm draped possessively across his chest. He wants to see this. Remember it. He sneaks a glance at his own face and sees the heavy-lidded evidence of his desire, lets himself notice his kiss-bitten lips and the dark pink of his cheeks. He didn’t know he looked like this—that his need was so transparent.

Mads arches his neck, his head tipping back to Hugh’s shoulder. “Ah, that’s good,” he gasps as Hugh slides a thumb over the head, feels where he’s leaking all over himself.

“I need to see you come,” Hugh whispers. “I think about it all the time.”

Mads swears in Danish and grits his teeth, cock twitching as Hugh tightens his grip and pumps his fist. He’s grinding against Mads now, the friction right on the line between exquisite and painful, and his heart races as he loses himself in their reflected image. 

“You make me hungry for things I never thought I’d want,” he continues. He can’t help the restless, constant movements of his hips, and an irrational part of him wants to keep going, wants to get off like this so he can see them come in unison.

Mads is almost panting. “Like—like what?”

“Like burying my face in you and fucking you with my tongue. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than inside of you, filling you up one way or another.”

Mads shudders and groans low and deep as he comes in Hugh’s hand, some of it shooting across his watch strap and hitting the mirror.

They face each other again, and Hugh feels dizzy with lust as Mads licks into his mouth in sated bliss. “ _Please_ ,” he says desperately, the word muffled and barely audible.

Mads pushes him up against the wall to one side of the mirror, both of them pulling hastily at his clothes. It’s urgent and sloppy, with his trousers shoved down just far enough for Mads to jerk him off, their faces inches apart and the air humid between them. Hugh feels a reckless, needy sound rising in his chest and bites into his own lip, only a soft whimper escaping.

“I love how you try to keep it in, like your pleasure is a secret,” Mads breathes, leaning in to nose at Hugh’s jaw. “Let me hear you. Let me hear how much you want this.”

His hand tugs hot and tight, and it is heaven. He twists his wrist and Hugh pushes into his fist with a throaty moan. “Fuck, yes, like that.”

Their next kiss is all frantic and bruising as Hugh spirals toward release, overwhelmed by the need to come and equally struck by a yearning to make this last forever. He’s teetering at that point of no return when Mads suddenly drops to his knees in one fluid movement. His tongue swirls around the head of Hugh's cock and then he sucks hard and deep, his mouth all wet silkiness and searing heat. Hugh reflexively grabs for a handful of hair, not controlling or directing so much as just holding on for dear life.

“Ah, Mads, I-” he gasps, fixated on the obscene stretch of reddened lips around him, and then he’s coming, eyes rolling back in his head and body convulsing as he empties himself into Mads’s throat. 

As aftershocks shiver through him, he finds he can barely move. He slumps down onto the ground, his back against the wall, and Mads scoots up to sit next to him, looking suitably smug.

“That was your Christmas gift,” Mads says solemnly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You are not getting any other things.”

Hugh laughs, still dazed and wobbly. “Well, my gift to you will be cleaning your semen off the surface of this ornate and otherwise pristine mirror,” he says dryly.

They always play it this way—carefully wrapping this fragile and terrifying thing in a protective layer of mirth and affected casualness. They sit in silence for a few minutes, their breathing gradually returning to normal. Eventually, and with reluctance, Hugh stands.

“I guess you should go,” he says, buttoning his pants and adjusting himself. “At least I said I was on the phone. They’ll assume you just went to the bathroom.”

Mads tilts his head, considering. “Will they?”

Hugh feels slightly faint, frowning as Mads gets to his feet. “You don’t think other people _know_ , do you?”

“I think some of this…” Mads gestures to the air around them. “I think it is coming through in the way we interpret our roles. Perhaps some people wonder, at least. That’s all.”

“Really?” Hugh squints. “What we’re portraying is an intellectual obsession, a profound emotional connection. Spiritual, almost. Not this.”

Mads chuckles a little, like his amusement is private. “And this is what, exactly?”

“Sex,” Hugh pauses, then grins sheepishly. “Very, very good sex.”

“I see,” Mads nods. “So, Hannibal and Will have the love, and we have the sex, and never shall the two meet. Aren’t we lucky there is such a neat divide?”

He straightens Hugh’s collar for him with a wink, then leaves him alone with that last thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this trash! I am recovering from a bad migraine, so I hope this was sufficiently coherent...


End file.
